


falling out of the skin into the soul

by 100demons



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Future Fic, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:24:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2228910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100demons/pseuds/100demons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Midorima looks down at his slick wet hands, dripping onto his once-white coat. His fingers tremble. The memory of broken bone is forever etched into his skin, like the whorls of his fingerprints; the feel of soft flesh ground into a pulp, echoing in his sore muscles.</p><p>Death, burning in every cell of his body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	falling out of the skin into the soul

There are cemeteries that are lonely,  
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,  
the heart moving through a tunnel,  
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,  
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,  
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,  
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.

 _Only Death_  
Pablo Neruda

 

* * *

 

 

Even after fifteen minutes of meticulous hand washing, there’s still a dull brown crust of blood embedded in the bed of his nails.

Midorima presses down on the foot pedal, water petering out to an unsteady trickle, beating out an erratic tattoo on the metal sink.

“What’s taking you so long, Shin-chan?” Takao’s dark head peers around the doorjamb, collar rumpled and stained from coffee. “You said you’d be down as soon as your shift was over, but it’s nearly eight thirty now. If we get there any later, Kagami will have eaten everything and we’ll have to play ball on an empty stomach.”

He reaches out for the roll of disposable towels, wet fingers fumbling against the stiff papery texture. Midorima distantly observes the roll teeter on the edge of the counter, then fall towards the ground as it unravels slowly, paper sheets fluttering like broken wings.

In a blinding instant, Takao’s hand clamps tight around the roll, knuckles bone white. “Midorima,” he says, quiet. “What’s wrong?”

The hard length of Takao’s body presses against him in the cramped bathroom and Midorima chokes on the bile rising in his throat. The room is too tight, too warm, too—

“Hey,” Takao says, voice low and urgent. His hands are cool against the burning skin of Midorima’s cheek. “You with me here? What happened?”

Midorima looks down at his slick wet hands, dripping onto his once-white coat. His fingers tremble. The memory of broken bone is forever etched into his skin, like the whorls of his fingerprints; the feel of soft flesh ground into a pulp, echoing in his sore muscles.

Death, burning in every cell of his body.

“I got called for a code,” he says slowly, the words falling from his lips like chips of glass.

“I analyze stocks for a living,” Takao smiles, the lines of his face drawn tight. “Tell it to me real simple.”

“A little girl died,” Midorima says, drawing in a ragged breath. “She was riding her bicycle and a car hit her. She got sucked right under and they lost her pulse in the middle of extricating her out. By the time she was here, she’d been clinically dead for about ten minutes.”

“Christ,” Takao whispers.

“We worked her up anyway, because she was so young.” Midorima swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “By the time I started compressions, there wasn’t much left of her chest. Just a soupy mess of crushed lungs and broken ribs.”

“You can’t—”

“I checked her birthday. She’s a Virgo, they were ranked first today.”

The kindness in Takao’s eyes is unbearable. Midorima jerks his head to the side, a sour taste marring the back of his throat.

“What was her lucky item?”

“A signed Oh Sadaharu baseball card,” Midorima says, numb.

“Well,” Takao says. “I need to get some new batting gloves anyway, we might as well stop by the shops at Tokyo Dome and pick up the card.”

“She’s dead,” Midorima says.

Takao gives him a look that dates all the way back to Shuutoku, sly bemusement layered over irritation. “Come on, Shin-chan,” he says and his fingers wind around Midorima’s slick wrist, tugging him towards the door. “We’re gonna miss the next train.”

“I—”

Takao gives him a quiet look, black hair falling over his cool grey eyes. The sharp angle of his normally roguish grin has softened into something warm and understanding.

Midorima swallows the rest of his words. “Alright,” he says finally, and follows him out, into the bright hallway and beyond.


End file.
